


but the gods were so, so infinitely cruel

by graceverse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, angst straight ahead, some occ-ness. ok maybe a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:44:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13408617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceverse/pseuds/graceverse
Summary: His breath leaves his lungs, noisy and painful and Jon willed his heart to stop as his hand finds her jaw, cupping it tenderly before moving upward to feel the smooth roundness of her cheeks, turning softly downwards, to her neck and then her shoulder and suddenly, Jon could feel his knees giving way, the weight of this sorrow so sudden, so encompassing it had turned into everything.This is his whole world now: this loss.It was all the he could know and feel and it consumed him, devoured him like snow storms could swallow up whole armies.





	but the gods were so, so infinitely cruel

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is like THE worst possible story I could think of and I just couldn't get it out of my head so I had to write it down and just...get it out of my system. Like a fanfic exorcism. So, uhm yes, they are out of character. Probably. More notes at the end.

Jon had stopped feeling.

He had ceased understanding anything. It was just darkness and softly murmured words, hurried footfalls, as they tried to save him. He kept his eyes closed and let his body do whatever it wanted. He no longer had the energy to fight off the cold, to bear the feverish heat, to keep his heart beating. Whatever it is that will come to pass, will pass.

He was bone tired. They had fought for days and weeks and months. A year. Maybe. He didn't know, he wasn't sure of time anymore, only of battles lost and won. The last thing he remember seeing was pure white shards of ice flying towards him as the Night King shattered against Longclaw. Death and steel and then darkness.

Jon did not know how long he had lain, hovering between two worlds, fire and ice, death and life. However long it was, just like everything else, it had to end.

* * *

 

One day, out of nowhere, he finally felt tentative fingers touching his face. Jon smiled. Or at least he tried to. He didn’t know how well that went, but he knew that touch, he would know it in death or in life.

Thin, bony fingers. The tips none too warm. He knew her from her scent: freshly washed tunic, faint-barely-there scent of wet fur, morning sun.

“Arya.” He took her hand in his, felt the hard callouses on her fingers. Left handed Arya. Her sword hand. Needle.

“How are you feeling?” Her voice was the same, young and brash, there at the very tip, it almost sounded as though she was smiling. How could that be possible? It was as though Jon had been thrown back in time and he very nearly asked if this was the Winterfell before they left. Where they back to the Winterfell that still knew of Lord Eddard Stark and his lady wife, the Stark children with their direwolves?

But no, the Arya of that Winterfell would have softer hands. The hands of a proper Lady and not the warrior that she had apparently become. Her hands had known pain and dirt and blood. A hand that knew how to tilt a blade at the right angle so as to easily slit someone's throat.

They had all became familiar with the feel of warm blood flowing from an open wound. They all had done their fair share of killings. No one has escaped the war unscathed. 

Jon tried to open his eyes even though he already knew that it was futile. It was a cruel joke. That he is alive, that he is finally with his beloved favorite sister but he is unable to see her, unable to see the world he had helped saved.

He didn’t have too many words to describe how he really felt, so he answered as simply as he could. “Tired. Sleepy. But alive, it seems.”

“You’re lucky.”

Yes. No. Did it matter?

“Aye.” And because it will always be darkness that he will see from now on, Jon went back to sleeping.

* * *

Jon had become aware of days and nights, of comings and goings of visitors: Maesters, Lords, wise old advisers, old friends. He knew their voices. Knew their hands. But he no longer knew their faces. Were they as changed as he was? Did they bore new scars on their faces? He would never know. 

Sam had to tell him one day, even though he had already figured it out long before.

Blind.

Never able to see the winter snow, spring flowers, summer skies, autumn leaves or the clear blueness of her eyes, the color of her hair.

She never visited. Not once. Not even when he pretended to sleep. She was still angry at him and Jon actually chuckled at that. Of course she is. He had given away her freedom and then had lain injured and useless as Danaerys no doubt claimed the Iron Throne.

Had the Dragon Queen ordered her to Lannisport, to fulfill her wedded duty to Tyrion? Was she pregnant now with a Lannister babe? 

No. Jon shook his head. No. Sansa would not be any of those. She would’ve fought hard to stay in Winterfell. She would have been able to talk Tyrion into petitioning for their divorce. She had been young - too young when she had been cloaked as a Lannister. She was not asked and so she had never consented. Tyrion would have seen reason in that.

And Tyrion had visited him too, offering cheerful congratulations, "from a bastard to a crowned prince. You are destined for greatness, Jon Snow."  Tyrion talked and talked and never mentioned anything about going to Lannisport or taking care of newly birthed Lannister heirs. He made some fancy speech about heroes and sacrifices and rebuilding the kingdom, together, one united front. He emphasized birth rights and restoring the Targaryens. Jon didn’t say anything. He didn’t want anything to do with uniting a kingdom filled with frivolous lords whose loyalty could easily be switched, bargained, forgotten. No, Jon wanted no part in that.

Daenerys visited more than anyone. More than Arya, to Jon’s dismay. More than Bran, who only came twice. Once, to remind him that he was still a Stark, despite being the son of Rhaegar. His mother was still Lyanna Stark and he was still of the North. The second to urge him to choose: Stark or Targaryen. His choice still mattered, it seemed. Jon had to shake his head and groan. There is no choice. He is a Stark. He will always be a Stark. He will never stop being a Stark.

_You are to me._

She had insisted it once, in an impassioned speech, her blue eyes fierce and bright and so very open, Jon could feel the truth of her statement deep within his bones, up to very bottom of his soul. He had wanted to kiss her right there and then. 

To finally kiss her. That was all that mattered to him now.  

There wasn't anything in this world that would convince him to ride South and be parted from Sansa ever again. He was aware of the stubborn set of his jaw every time the South was mentioned. This would explain Dany’s almost daily visits, urging him to accompany her to King's Landing, but not Sansa’s absence. 

* * *

 

Dany once commented on his color, "not as pale as yesterday, my love. Perhaps in a few more days, you will be ready to walk around the castle."

Jon did nothing. Said nothing. Waited for her to leave him be. She was a bright warm voice, going on and on about how he could fully recover in King’s Landing. Or perhaps even Dragonstone, the sun and the sea will help him regain his strength. But his strength lay in wet snow, in the cold biting wind, the Godswood, the howling of the wolves that had made Winterfell their home. He didn’t have the energy to explain this to her. He didn’t want to share with her these things that had kept him alive. 

Jon tried his best to be patient. He would shake his head 'no' at Dany's endless entreaties, he quietly endured Dany's constant touches. He waited for his aunt to finally give up on him and wished she would just leave him be. 

But mostly, Jon waited for Sansa.

He'll keep waiting. He wasn't in a hurry. A blind man, after all, has too many things to occupy him. Relearning sounds, scents, textures. Relearning his own room, his own body even. He was whole, scarred beyond healing, but everything seemed to be where they should be. It was only his eyesight that he had lost and all things considered, it was not as devastating as being dead. He will probably never hold a sword, never fight another battle and this was something he was actually thankful for. He had no more wish to fight. There was nothing left to fight for. Only to live for.

But she still refused to see him.

And so, when Jon had been sure that everyone of importance in the North, in the Vale, in the miserable South, even the Free Folks has visited him - Dragon Prince, bastard Snow, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, just Jon – he finally asked Arya.

“Where is Sansa?” There's a certain softness in his voice when he said Sansa's name. For so long, he had tried to hide the intensity of his affections that went beyond what one was supposed to feel for one's sibling but he was too tired to try and cover it up. He longed for Sansa and if Arya realized it, she did not say anything about it. In fact, for a whole minute, she kept quiet.

There is nothing strange in her silence, Jon had been expecting it. He was all but ready to finally have someone he could reveal his true feelings. He does not wish to hide it anymore and he felt that Arya would not take it against him if he were to tell her that he loved Sansa. 

_I love her but not like how I love you, sweet sister._

He would plead to Arya, if needed, for her to understand that this was something that he could not control and that he had grown tired of fighting against it. Arya would understand, probably not right away, but Jon was certain that he will not be judged so harshly. 

“She has never visited me.” He added, the yearning in his voice undeniable. There was no mistaking how he much he missed her, how desperate he was to see her.   

He heard Arya take a deep breath. “You’re asleep sometimes. How would you know?” She asked, the lilt in her voice the same as always. No change in tone, no hint of anger or sorrow or anything that Jon had feared he would hear.

He finally relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief. “I’d know." Was his only explanation. He didn't have enough words to convey how he had become so attuned to Sansa's presence and how much he craved it. "Sansa smells like lemons and fresh snow and winter roses." He murmured, more to himself, remembering how, after they had retaken Winterfell from the Boltons, they used to spend so many nights talking about everything. Her scent remained even when she had left the room. It lingered all around him, seeping into his fur coat and into his skin. If she had visited him, his room would smell of her.

“I’ll take you to her.”

It was a strange statement. Jon frowned. Had she been injured? Was she lying on a bed recovering just as he was? Jon closed his eyes, breathed in deeply. “Is she...hurt?" He hated the thought of being unable to protect her. He had promised her and to be so far away when she needed his protection, to be unable to keep his vow, it galled him. 

Again a long silence. Jon felt his frown deepening. Surely Arya or Bran would have told him as soon as he had waken if something had happened to Sansa? Perhaps it isn't a physical kind of hurt. Jon felt something inside him twisting and shivering. 

 _Does she still hate me?_ He wanted to ask. But does it matter if she did? It would not change anything. She had every right to hate him, so Jon decided that yes, Sansa still hated him. He was regretful but at the same time determined to start wooing her. Something he had thought about long and hard, all those many nights he had lain awake thinking only of her. He will tell her how he truly feels, she needed to know first. And then he will be able to finally answer Dany why he would never join her in King’s Landing.

_Sansa is my home. I will never march South with you._

It would be a lot of work, trying to win Sansa back, but he could live with that. It would be a fine and worthy challenge. And if she had forgiven him, then he would cherish her all the more. Maybe he could finally be glad that he had survived the war.

"Now? Will you take me to her now?” He asked instead, unable to hide his eagerness, the longing in his gravelly, scratchy voice.  

“Tomorrow.” Arya told him and as usual, leaned forward to press a gentle kiss unto his forehead before leaving the room.

_Tomorrow._

Finally, something to look forward too. 

 

* * *

The following day, as promised, Jon walked with Arya out of his room and into the hallway. There was an awed hush around them and Jon was certain it was because the people inside Winterfell had never seen Jon Snow and Arya Stark walking its hallways. At least no one alive would have seen them together. Dark eyed, dark haired, somber faced Stark ghosts silently roaming their home.

Her strides were short but confident, as though she already knew that even without his sight, he would know exactly where to go, where the corners would be, were the stairs would start and end, where the windows would allow light and sun and warmth.

And he did. Jon knew Winterfell better than he knew himself. This was the Winterfell he had grown up with, the Winterfell whose nooks and crannies he had explored and mapped and he could see it all clearly in his mind. Knew exactly where the Stark banner would be hanging – he reached out his hands and felt the heavy fabric bearing the grey winter wolf.

He started towards Sansa’s solar, sure that she would be there, but Arya’s footsteps stopped and Jon had to turn back towards her. It didn’t take long for Jon to realize that they were heading outside and he braced himself for the cold, but the air was crisp, not the biting freeze he had expected. 

Arya seemed to have sensed his confusion, “Sam thinks that when you defeated the Night King, it shortened winter. He thinks that the Night King and winter were somehow feeding off each other.”

He sensed Arya’s shrug, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what Arya meant and he didn’t want to question Sam who had skillfully dragged him out of death’s grip.

“I think we just assumed it would be a long winter and it turned out that it wasn’t.” This sounded nothing like his impetuous sister. This sounded like someone who had grown resigned to the mistakes men were bound to make. 

Arya was so much wiser, calmer, and surer of herself, of her place in the world that Jon suddenly missed the little girl that had jumped into his arms, hugging him, making him promise that he will visit her in the South or maybe  _she_ will visit him at the Wall.

They  _had_ assumed a lot of things and ended up being so incredibly wrong and that, Jon could at least understand.  

* * *

The chill was familiar but not in a comforting way. He knew this cold, had spent too many times being enveloped by it.

The crypts beneath Winterfell.

He stopped walking so abruptly, he stepped on Arya’s heels.

And now, yes, the scent of tears. Of mourning that was never meant to be spoken of or shared. It rises from her and Jon feels suddenly weak and lightheaded. He fights against this feeling, fights it like he had fought so many months ago, with gritted teeth and clenched fists.

“Is she visiting father--- I mean," Jon faltered. Ned wasn't his father anymore. Should he say "uncle”? But that didn't sound right. Jon shook his head, he knew he was trying to distract himself from this moment. He swallowed hard. This was exactly the same way he had felt when he had tried to open his eyes, knowing that he would never be able to see again, ever. "Did she want us to meet her here?" 

“ _Jon_.” It's a whispered entreaty and it was unmistakable, the sudden change in Arya’s voice. Like a raw, opened wound that was still profusely bleeding and that will remain open until all the blood runs out. It was how sorrow worked.   

Jon didn’t wait for another word or worst, a comforting touch. “Take me to her.” Was all that he said, suddenly reminded of Robert Baratheon, years and years and a whole lifetime ago, gruffly ordering Ned Stark to take him to the crypts to visit his beloved Lyanna Stark. Jon had been there that day, not lined up with the Stark children, but standing behind them, near enough to hear the grasping, greedy tone that the King did not mask, not even for the sake of his queen, standing just beside him. 

He sounded just like that. 

* * *

Darkness never mattered now. He was still surefooted as he was inside the castle. How many days and nights had he spent coming inside these crypts to stare at Ned Stark’s face, asking him for forgiveness for bending the knee, for wanting something he was not supposed to have, for hoping, for demanding, for trying to bargain?

_I will save The North, father. I will make myself worthy of her._

His senses were startling in its accuracy and as they walked closer to where he knew Ned Stark’s statue was, Jon was also certain that there was no one else inside the crypt. It was still just him and Arya.

Arya, who silently, very gently takes his hand and stretches it over his head so that his fingers can meet stone, instead of flesh, coldness instead of warmth.

_Sansa Stark. The Queen in the North._

His breath leaves his lungs, noisy and painful and Jon willed his heart to stop -  _stop beating! how is he still alive? Why was he still alive? -_ as his hand finds her jaw, cupping it tenderly before moving upward to feel her the smooth roundness of her cheers, turning softly downwards, to her neck and then her shoulder and suddenly, Jon could feel his knees giving way, the weight of this sorrow so sudden, so encompassing it had turned into  _everything_. It was all the he could know and feel and it consumed him, devoured him like snow storms could swallow up whole armies. He clutched at her stone skirts, silently weeping. 

This is his whole world now: this loss.

Nothing will ever matter. Nothing. He might as well be dead. He  _wished_ he was dead.

“How?” came out more as a howl and he asked this over and over before switching to “why” and then finally “who?” because his fight was not yet over. He would have to hold his sword once again and he  _will_  swing it. He will wait for the sound of steel slipping between flesh and bones, the heat of blood hissing as it fell and melted the snow. This would not ease the pain, but it will allow him to live with himself.

He had so utterly failed her.

Arya didn’t move, didn’t try to comfort him. “You were still beyond the wall." Her voice though eerily calm was thick with emotions. "She abandoned you, remember?”

Jon wordlessly nodded. Dany had apologized for it with tears and careful hands brushing away the anger in his frowns and grunts. She had to. Rhaegal had already died. Drogon barely survived. She only had one dragon left and there was no way she will be able to claim the Iron Throne with a dying dragon. She had to leave.

It didn’t matter. Jon was already determined to kill the Night King. He will put a stop to this endless nightmare and he didn’t care if he had dragons or Dothrakis or the Unsullied behind him. The war was now just between him and the Night King. If he could destroy him once and for all, he would be able to come home to Winterfell, to Arya and Bran, to Sansa. 

“She headed North. I was still at Riverrun with Nymeria.”

“You took The Trident.” Jon remembered receiving a raven telling him of the Warrior of Winterfell, the youngest daughter of Eddard Stark, charging towards the Golden Company on the back of the biggest direwolf the kingdom had ever seen and behind her, more wolves, snarling and howling, the fur of their snouts matted, darkened by the blood of their enemies, the blood of those who had betrayed them, have forsaken them. 

An Army of Avenging Wolves. Winter finally arriving in the South, jaws furiously, righteously snapping up bones and flesh. 

“I was too late. The Dragon Queen arrived in Winterfell and she demanded the Northern Lords to bend the knee, to be the army that she had lost fighting beyond the wall.”

And already Jon could see her, standing just outside Winterfell, her head held high, chin jutting out, red hair harsh against the pure white of winter snow. She would not show them that she was frightened; she will not let them see her trembling. She was of the North. The daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark. She was the Lady of Winterfell, their true Warden.

“Bran said Sansa had looked up and kept her eyes, staring straight at Drogon and it was so, so quiet that even though it was a whisper, even when it had been spoken so quietly, everyone heard it.”

_Dracarys._

Jon found himself storming outside, the chilled air seeping through his skin, finding its ways inside his veins, into his blood, wrapping itself around his heart until he could feel frozen air inside his lungs. 

Arya grabbed his shoulder, stopping him. “You can’t.”

“I will.” He shrugged off her hold. “I only regret that I won’t be able to see her face.” The anger inside him – no, not anger, something far more fiercer than that. Fire and blood. A kind of madness, an unspeakable, unstoppable violence threatening to burst forth from him, the urge to lay waste this world that deprived him of her warmth, of her smile. His blood demanded retribution. 

But Arya planted herself firmly in front of him, “You can’t. She is the mother of your child."

Jon staggered back.  _What?_

"What are you---what?!

“You slept with her. On your way here." Arya continued all matter-of-fact and if there had been a tiniest hint of rebuke from her, Jon didn't hear it. The sound of his own anguished voice over lapped with Arya's. 

"No. No. No. No." There was a loud thrumming inside his ears, his heart felt like it was angrily slamming against his rib cage, wanting to free itself of this absolute pain and loss.  

"She is carrying your child, Jon." 

"No! It isn't possible. She had said... there was a curse." Jon found himself unable to continue. The words swam inside his head. A curse upon her, to never bear a child. That was the only reason why he had lain with her. He did not wish to father a bastard! 

"Why do you think she is still here, alive? Why do you think her head isn’t on a spike rotting on a table inside my chambers?” Arya insisted. "You have a child. A Targaryen. The first real Targaryen in years."  

And Jon felt like dying all over again. A bastard child. A bastard child born out of desperation. He had wanted to save Sansa and her beloved North, he had wanted a reassurance that The North will not burn, that his family will be safe. 

Arya is still talking, her voice becoming colder, Jon could sense her own bitter anger frothing over, ready to burst. Her words were clipped, but determined. "I am just waiting. You think I would be able to kill her with a child --- _your_ child ---- still inside her? She wants to escape back to the South," Arya snorted like a feral animal, "like that would matter. But she wants to take you with her. That's why she's still here. She's waiting for you to go with her."

"I will never..." Jon starts, his hands clenching tightly into fists, wanting and needing to feel the familiar pommel of Longclaw. He will cut her into tiny ribbons and offer it all on Sansa's feet. 

Arya wasn't through yet. "She will not escape Winterfell. And even if she does, I will come for her. I will feed her to my wolves. I will end the dragons. Gendry will burn Dragonstone for me. That will be his wedding gift. And your child will be raised as a Stark. With Ghost and Nymeria. Your babe will be a child of winter and will know nothing about the mother of dragons." Arya very nearly spat out the words. "We will tell your child only about Father and Mother and Robb and Sansa and Rickon."

Jon hears the crunch of snow as Arya turns towards him, her small fists clutching his arms, fingers digging deep into his flesh, drawing blood. He could feel Arya violently trembling and he wanted nothing more to put his arms around her and console her. But he did not know how. He could barely contain his own dark grief. 

"Promise me, Jon! Promise me!" She was shaking him now, the violence in her voice was unwavering. There's a certain madness in Arya now too. 

But Jon did not care. He nodded his head. "Aye." A thousand times aye. They will exact their revenge and after... after, Jon wished nothing more than to join Sansa...perhaps the gods shall allow him that. 

But a child. 

To leave a child fatherless and motherless. 

Just like him. 

Jon closed his eyes.

He knew that he will be unable to leave his own child alone. He has already lost too much. He would have to relearn love.

Did Lord Eddard Stark feel the same way as he held him when his mother died? Did his hatred for Rhaegar matched his own hatred for Dany? Jon has never understood Ned Stark now more than ever, in this very moment and he knew exactly what he will do to survive this life.

Ned Stark's footsteps were now his to follow.

Except for one thing, Jon will tell his child of his mother. He will tell him stories about the woman he loved: beautiful and radiant, kind and warm, strong and brave, eyes blue as the summer skies, and the reds in her hair, when it catches the light, it shines like copper...

But the gods were so, so infinitely cruel.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, fuck. Fuck. What the fuck did I write? It’s like everything I don’t ever want to happen (MagicalTargBaby!) in GoT.  
> But yeah, there’s the saddest ending I could ever think of. I’m so sorry Jon. You don't deserve that. I'm going to have to make up for it with some intense fluffy fic. 
> 
> I will never write anything like this ever again. Like, ok that’s out of my head now. I can now stop thinking about that scenario – which has haunted me many sleepless nights. I know this has a lot of plot holes, so maybe we can consider this as a crack fic? Please don’t hate me.


End file.
